


Let's Go Fly a Kite

by keep_waking_up



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean stopped Sam from closing the gate but there was no Gadreel, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, M/M, post-S8 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-11-20 22:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11343948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keep_waking_up/pseuds/keep_waking_up
Summary: Dean’s desperate. He’s got this thing in his chest telling him that Sam is not the happiest he could be (no shit, what’s new) and no ways to fix it. And that’s when he sees the flyer on the wall of the diner.





	Let's Go Fly a Kite

**Author's Note:**

> Gift for merakieross for spn_j2_xmas based on her prompt: "A happy day where the brothers fly kites, have sex outdoors, and just really love each other all while making fun of each other without being overly saccharine or ridiculous." This is more angsty than the prompt—and weirdly more sappy too?—and I'm still not totally satisfied with the end, but hopefully you still enjoy! Happy holidays!

Ultimately, regardless of everything else, Dean loves his brother. And he can admit that to himself, mostly because it isn’t the warm, fuzzy, syrupy-sweet kind of Hallmark love that he associates with girls and puppies and white picket fences. Whatever he feels for Sam is a hard, fierce lump in his chest, the kind of love that makes him want to hold Sam bruising-tight. Fuck nice; Dean loves Sam like he’s constantly about to lose him.

All this goes to explain why he’s not very good at _showing_ Sam any kind of affection beyond occasional praise and the hard back thumps he learned from his dad. Even the sex… well. Dean’d barely learned how to treat women like more than just a fun way to pass the night. Not that he didn’t treat them as best he could, but he’d always been a bit hindered by the sheer foreignness of them. If it was more than simple fun, he had no idea what they were looking for.

Sam isn’t a woman anyway, and probably doesn’t want what women have wanted from Dean—although he isn’t actually sure of that, now that he’s thinking about it, because a lot of the same complaints seem to get tossed around. Even if Sam had stopped vocalizing his issues as a rule (which is another thing to add to the list of concerns about Sam), Dean is betting they’re still there.

Because he does, yes, love his brother, Dean _wants_ to make him happy, but these days he’s singularly incapable of it. Narrowing his eyes, he watches Sam mechanically eat his omelet across the table. They’re in a rare lull; cases have been scarcer than rain in California. Yet Sam is still combing through the newspapers like he does every goddamn morning. Dean could try to talk to him, he could, except the conversation would probably patter along down one of five possible paths, the same words they always exchange when they’re case-less in the morning.

Dean admittedly likes routine and tradition, but not that much.

He’s desperate, he knows it. He’s got this thing in his chest telling him that Sam is not the happiest he could be (no shit, what’s new) and no ways to fix it. And that’s when he sees the flyer on the wall of the diner.

“Hey, look,” he blurts out and points like a dork. “That’s cool.”

Sam blinks as he looks up, like he’s dazed from rejoining the real world. Slowly, he follows the line of Dean’s arm. “A… kite flying competition?”

He sounds skeptical. This is understandable. Dean does not actually think a kite flying competition is in any way cool. In fact, it pretty much sounds like the definition of lame. But he’s put it out there and he’s gonna fucking stand by it, even if it is a shit idea.

“Yeah. What, you don’t like kites?” If he sounds a little defensive, so what? He jams a huge bite of pancake into his mouth and stares Sam down.

Sam’s forehead crinkles with confusion. He glances back down at his meal like he’s surprised it’s still there. “I don’t know,” he finally answers, and he’s got that my-brother-is-insane voice. “Seeing as I’ve never flown one. Neither have you, that I know of.”

Now that Sam mentions it, Dean realizes he _hasn’t_ flown a kite. It was exactly the kind of thing John Winchester (and therefore Dean Winchester) had no use for. Kite flying was for kids who didn’t know the truth about the monster under their bed.

All this practically guaranteed that flying kites was something Sam had longed to do when he was younger. In fact, Dean had a vague memory of watching _Mary Poppins_ with Sam once and Sam watching the final song, entranced. The kid had probably thought they’d be normal if they all just went out and flew kites together too.

“Well,” Dean clears his throat. “First time for everything, right? And it’s not like we have anything better to do.”

Sam twitches a little, thumb rubbing over the palm of his other hand. “I could keep looking, maybe reach out to a few of our old contacts. There’s got to be something out there—”

“You can look later,” Dean says as firmly as he can. He wraps his hands around his cup of coffee and squeezes. Sam needs to agree to this—Dean doesn’t know what it means that he hasn’t already agreed to this. Figuring out what’s going on in Sam’s head has always been tricky, but the whiplash of the past couple of years could drive a man insane. Sam wants to hunt, he doesn’t want to hunt. He wants a normal life, he doesn’t want a normal life. He’s happy, he’s not happy, he’s never happy, he’s never been happy.

Sam needs to say yes to the fucking kites already.

Once, Sam would have been looking at him from beneath shaggy bangs. Now, the overly long strands are tucked back behind his ears as he hunches down a little to stare at Dean quizzically. “You really want to go?” He’s baffled, confused, and bewildered; there’s no sign of what _Sam_ actually wants in his voice.

Frustrated, Dean shoves the coffee cup back and hisses as a burning drop lands on the back of his hand. Sometimes the smallest shit hurts the worst. “Look, if you don’t want to go, we don’t have to fucking go.”

Sam is still peering at him like he’s unraveling Dean with his brain. What Dean wouldn’t give to be able to read Sam the same way. “We can go,” he finally says, although he still sounds uncertain. “You’re right. We don’t have anything else to do.”

It’s hardly said with the enthusiasm Dean was hoping for, but he’ll take it. “Okay then.” He throws a bunch of crumpled bills down on the table. “Let’s get going then. Those kites aren’t gonna fly themselves.”

*

Apparently, they aren’t going to fly with Dean either.

“What the fuck,” Dean growls, as he throws the kite into the air yet again and it comes twirling back to the ground.

Between the drive to the competition (dead silent, Sam side-eyeing him like he was diseased or had sold his soul again), parking (if there is one scratch left on the Impala by some impatient minivan driver, Dean will kill), paying the entrance fee (the ticket seller had been judging them, Dean is sure of it—like two grown men can’t fucking fly some kites if they want to), and actually buying the kites (not rentable and they all looked like butterflies or birds or some shit—Dean had lucked out and found a plain red one, but Sam was stuck with a monarch butterfly), Dean was already in a bit of a mood by the time they trudged onto the fairground. When they finally found a spot to stake out and fly the damn kites, things didn’t get much better. Mostly because Dean’s kite _will not fly_.

“Damn fucking thing is fucking cursed, I’m telling you,” he yells over his shoulder at Sam, who is being lame and taking forever to construct his kite. Dean’d just thrown the thing together; it wasn’t like it’d been _hard_. But Sam’s a fucking perfectionistic dweeb. He used to do the same thing when they were kids—he’d take his sweet time doing something, but then he’d do it about five times better than Dean ever could, the shithead. Dean’s pretty sure history is going to repeat itself, and he’s not a fan.

Sam deigns to look up from his orange, black, and white monstrosity to assess Dean’s progress. “Maybe if you didn’t just toss it up there,” he suggests mildly. “Try running. It needs to catch the wind.”

Dean glares back at him. “I do enough running, thanks.”

He isn’t looking at Sam, but he can _feel_ the slightly condescending shrug. “Just trying to help.”

Scowling, Dean looks around them. Other than the kids, everyone else is just standing there, staring upwards at their perfectly flying kites. “How the fuck are _their_ kites up? _They_ aren’t running.”

“Well, they did at some point.” Apparently Sam is finally done, because he comes up to stand next to Dean. The string for his kite is tightly coiled around his hand, unlike Dean’s, which is tangled and knotted and all over the place. For someone who’s such a fucking mess, Sam’s pretty good at looking like he’s got it together.

“Watch me,” Sam instructs him, stupidly superior considering he _is_ the little brother—in years anyway. He starts trotting backwards while slowly unwinding the kite string; he looks like a fucking idiot, this giant man so intent on flying his butterfly kite. But, of-fucking-course, the wind has caught his kite and it keeps on soaring up higher and higher.

There is something distinctly smug in the way Sam jogs back to him, his kite now dozens of feet above their heads. “Like that,” he tells Dean, not even winded. His cheeks are kinda flushed though, and there’s something like a smile hovering around the corners of his mouth. That feeling hits Dean again; fuck the kites, he wants to grab Sam and cage him in with his arms, bite the nape of his neck until Sam has to stay.

Ah, love.

“Show-off,” Dean mutters instead. Grabbing onto the string of his kite, he shoves the thing into the air before taking off, stomping hard enough that his boots tear out the perfectly maintained grass as he runs. His kite, the fucking piece of trash, floats along behind him. He manages to get it up to about twenty feet before it decides it doesn’t like heights and falls back down again.

That is just it. “What the _fuck_!” Dean shouts. “Goddamn _fly_ , piece of shit!”

People are staring. Fucking civilians. Of course _their_ kites are working; they have the time to waste on stupid shit like this. Dean is seriously considering punching the next person who looks at him sidewise, but then he looks over and Sam is laughing.

Not busting up or anything. It’s not that extreme. And he’s hiding it with one hand, but Dean knows all the signs of Sam laughing. The way his shoulders hunch and his chin tilts slightly back. He’s sure that behind that hand Sam’s dimples are crazy deep and that his little brother is probably cackling up a storm with that bizarre raspy laugh of his. 

It’s been a while since he’s seen it, but Dean knows what he’s looking at. Suddenly this whole stupid idea seems a little less lame.

He picks up the kite and walks back over to Sam, who’s still snickering. Because he has to, Dean punches Sam’s arm half-heartedly. “Shut up,” he says gruffly, although he’s really kind of okay with Sam continuing as he is.

Luckily, Sam never does what he’s told. He’s still laughing a little when he hands the string of his kite over to Dean. “Here,” he says, and for a second they hold the kite together. The monarch soars ever higher above them. Neither of them are watching it. “Better?” Sam asks.

“It’s kind of nice,” Dean allows reluctantly. He doesn’t really mean the kite at all.

*

They’ve been having sex on and off since Sam was seventeen. More off than on, admittedly, but when they’re on, they’re _on_. So they’ve had all kinds of sex. But something still feels new when Sam kisses him in the competition’s parking lot.

It’s late; most of the other kite fliers went home hours ago. It’s just them, and the setting sun, and the shady little corner Dean parked them in, far away from the rest of the cars that could potentially maul the Impala. And Sam’s kinda grinning. Maybe that’s why the whole thing feels surreal.

“I had a really good day today,” Sam tells him as he nuzzles the side of Dean’s neck. He says it like he’s making a joke he knows Dean won’t get, which makes Dean want to slap him more than a little. Before he can, though, Sam bites down where Dean’s neck meets his shoulder and Dean shudders. “It was fun. Flying kites.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean pushes until Sam is pinned between him and the Impala. The lump in his chest thumps agitatedly. Maybe that’s why Dean grabs onto Sam’s hair a little too fiercely as he kisses him. Sam moans into it, and it’s like the sound runs over Dean’s body, making him hot everywhere. He presses harder against Sam, ‘cause what was abstract before is now a desperate, immediate sort of need.

“Well what?” Sam mumbles, and the little shit says it while he sneaks his hand down to press right above the line of Dean’s jeans. Like Dean’s supposed to be able to think while he does that.

Dean bites at Sam’s lips, digs his fingers into Sam’s ass. God, it’s unfair that on top of everything else, Sam is stupidly hot.  “Well…” he returns slowly, dragging the word out. He gets distracted by the way Sam’s shirt is riding up and the line of skin that’s exposed. He kisses Sam again to get his mind off it.

They’re grinding slowly while they kiss, somehow both frantic and unhurried. Dean feels like he’s two seconds away from coming—even though they’re basically doing nothing—just because this thing in chest is conspiring with Sam to kill him slowly. Sam’s fresh cotton scent is weirdly sexy; his quick little breaths are life-destroying.

Dean clutches. Dean clings. Dean holds Sam against the car and rubs up against him like he’s dreaming.

“Dean,” Sam pants softly. The sun’s nearly down and Dean wants to leave hickeys everywhere the light is still hitting Sam.  “Dean,” he says again, more insistently, his hips bucking. “Today… today was really good. I really liked it.”

“Good.” Dean smiles and probably looks like a dork doing it.  “Glad you’re happy, Sammy.”

Sam kisses him again, all deep and wet. When it ends, he keeps their foreheads pressed together, their lips inches apart. “You didn’t have to…” He breaks off as Dean presses them closer together, their legs pressed where it counts. “You. You’re enough.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Dean groans, because enough is enough. “Better be fucking making fun of me.” Because otherwise Sam is trying to have a serious talk while they’re rubbing off on each other and Dean’s probably never going to be ready for that. Even if he wasn’t on the edge of coming his brains out, Dean’s not equipped to deal with this situation. Dean loves his brother, yes. Dean wants to make Sam happy, yes. But this kind of talking, he can’t do.

Sam laughs, short and sweet enough that Dean knows he really _was_ trying to affirm Dean’s worth or something. Luckily, he seems willing to drop it. He nuzzles at Dean sloppily, bending over a little more to kiss him quickly. Dean keeps him there longer, sucks on his tongue in supplication. “Okay,” Sam says, like it’s easy.  He slides his hands to Dean’s hips. “Dean?”

Call and response. Dean closes his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Make me come?”

That, Dean can do.


End file.
